


Ceasefire

by Ceia



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Deathfic, Established Relationship, F/M, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 19:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14503728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceia/pseuds/Ceia
Summary: Junkrat had been able to keep her safe then, so why can’t he save her now?





	Ceasefire

**Author's Note:**

> Fic drabble request for starshine-robotics on Tumblr.

* * *

 

Junkrat reaches for his last clip just as the assault unit falls to the ground. Its chassis bends and breaks upon impact, crashing metal that rings out across the battlefield, and smoke begins to pour out of it like blood leaking into the sky.

He puts his clip away. Junkrat is disappointed he didn’t get to use the whole lot, because he was looking forward to making the pun of blowing his load even though they’ve all heard it a million times before. But he’s also exhausted from the fight - it’s been a tough one, down to the wire - so really he’s just grateful that they’ve finally won it. Now they can think about getting the fuck home, where he’ll be able to collapse into a bed that’s more than just a steel bunk. Their bed, in fact, a thought that makes him smile as he wipes the back of his gloved hand across his forehead.

“Junkrat!” Tracer says, shouting over to him. He swings around ready to shout an irritated  _what_  back at her, only to see that she’s with the others - that she’s kneeling on the ground holding Mercy in her arms.

Junkrat frowns. He throws his weapon aside. Initially he walks because the muscles in his legs are torn up from the day, but almost as soon as his body starts moving he’s beckoned by an instinctive need to be there, right now _._  Junkrat runs as much as his defective leg allows, bounding across the rubble. Their weapons are scattered, shields in pieces everywhere, but amongst all of the wreckage left from their fight his eyes are drawn to Mercy, stuck on her.

She isn’t moving.

He runs past the others – past Jack, crouched away from them, and past Winston, who’s covering his face with his hands.

“What—what the fuck’s going—”

“Junkrat,” Tracer says, with an urgency that cuts right through him. He looks down at her, where she’s curled with Mercy in this crevice on the battlefield. Tracer’s eyes are wide but Mercy’s are closed, and Junkrat’s chest hollows when he sees red.

That… that’s a lot of blood.

Not bright and fresh but dark and coming from – from her, from his – from  _her._ Too much, he knows, because he’s seen this before. It’s ruining Mercy’s suit, spattered over her face, her halo. Staining her hair. She’ll – she’ll be upset about that when she wakes up.

“Hey… what— why’s she—give her to me!”

Junkrat drops to his knees, hurrying to pull her away from Tracer and gather her into his arms. Mercy’s body should be light and dainty, but it’s never felt heavier, and her head is slack where it’s cushioned in the crook of his arm. His heart stops, immediately thinking the worst, but when he brings her closer Mercy shifts against him – exhales, shakily, a small gift to let him know that she’s still there. Junkrat laughs out a grateful burst of a sound and brushes her hair out of her eyes. His hand is dirty, but hopefully she won’t mind.

“Babe,” he says, gently. Why is her breathing so shallow? “Babe, we did it. We fucking did it!”

He can feel her blood on him, warm where it’s starting to seep into his own ragged clothes. Junkrat glances blindly around for some way of stopping it. If she was missing a limb he’d know what to do, fix her up easy, but the blood seems to be coming from – from inside, everywhere, too many injuries, too much of her skin exposed where it should be protected in white. So he doesn’t – doesn’t know what to do.

“Where the fuck’s her staff?” he barks, scared to take his eyes off her but needing to know where it is. Tracer’s face is gaunt when he meets her eyes.

“There’s nothing left in it,” she says, quietly. Junkrat laughs, scowling at her.

“What? No, that’s—”

“Jamie,” comes a fragile voice below him.

“Hey!” he says, a relieved gasp when Angela smiles at him, blue eyes open and gazing up into his. She isn’t Mercy when she looks at him like that. It’s a look she never shares when they’re with the others, though, and Junkrat wishes she wasn’t sharing it with him now - that she’d save it for when they’re home.

“Jamie,” Angela says again, breathing it out. Her eyelashes flutter, like she’s struggling to stay awake, and a weight drops in his stomach, cold and dark and boring into him. She was fine before - not even half an hour ago, he’s sure of it - so why is she like this now?

“Hey, keep those eyes open,” Junkrat says, giving her body a gentle squeeze. She’ll be alright if he holds her tight enough. “Keep those eyes open for me!”

“I can’t,” she tells him, so he squeezes her again, rejecting this. There’s the vague thought that he’s running out of time but he pushes it aside – needs to focus on the here and now, on getting her home where he can look after her.

“Yes you bloody well can,” Junkrat says, forcing out a laugh. She’s being ridiculous - of course she can. “All you hafta do is look at me, alright? Just – keep lookin’ at me, then I’ll getcha home, and I can—I—”

The colour is draining from her face. He pats her cheek to try and get it back – try and keep her eyes open and on him, giving him that look he loves so much – but Angela’s eyes close again anyway. Junkrat whimpers, feeling like she’s fading and not knowing why.

“C’mon, Angie, stay awake for me,” he says, shaking her, trying to get through to her. “Stay with me!”

What’s happening? She - she should be okay now, shouldn’t she? She’s always okay when she’s in his arms. That’s what he’s here for – to protect her from all of this, shield her from harm. That’s his purpose for being here, isn’t it? She’s the only fucking reason he’s doing any of this!

“Jamie, I…”

Angela’s lips part. He can see the curl of her tongue, knows exactly what she’s going to say next. Junkrat shushes her, presses his forehead to hers.

“Oh no, no no no, I’ll be having none of that,” he says, firmly. If she says it – tells him – he’s scared it’s going to be the last time he’ll ever hear it, and he doesn’t want that, doesn’t want this to be his final image. Focuses instead on when she told him last night, when she’d crept into his bunk and cuddled into him, body warm and lips soft on his.

Junkrat had been able to keep her safe then, so why can’t he save her now? They won the fight, didn’t they? He was dealing with the last of them and they won the fucking fight, so how is this happening?

“Fucking – do something!” he says, shouting up at Tracer.

“There’s… there’s no one,” she says. He looks away from her when she shakes her head at him, like she’s already given up. “There’s nothing we can—”

“No, there’s gotta—has to be something, we can’t just—she’s our Mercy, for fuck’s sake!”

Angela nudges him, a soft plea for his attention. Relief floods him now that her eyes are open again, and then she’s lifting her hand up, resting it on his face. Junkrat’s breath catches in his throat when she brushes her thumb over his cheek.

“Take care… won’t you?” she says, the words slow and deliberate.

Her touch is so gentle, as gentle as it always has been, and even though he refuses to believe that any of this is happening somehow Junkrat knows he could spend the rest of his days searching, but he’d never find anyone who’d be able to touch him the way she does.

“Gotta take care of you first,” he says, trying to smile back at her like he isn’t drowning in this and his eyes aren’t filling with tears. “Can’t– can’t take care of m’self half as well as you can, Angie, I – I need you.”

“Please,” she rasps, with a smile that breaks his heart.

Junkrat chokes on a laugh. Angela’s hand falls. He grabs it and presses it against his face, wanting that gentle touch back, but it isn’t the same, something irreplaceable that’s already gone.

“Don’t—don’t do this.” He hugs her broken body against him, some frantic attempt to keep them together, to rescue her from herself. “Please, Angie, don’t—don’t fucking do this to me!”

It took Junkrat weeks to build up the courage to kiss her. Months after that to tell her he loved her. But it’s only taking seconds for Angela to slip away from him, moments in time turning to sand between his fingers now that she’s dying right here in his arms.

“Please,  _please_  don’t do this!” he says, voice breaking as he pleads with her, the most precious thing on this miserable fucking earth. He wishes he could be numb to this, or maybe that he could be in her place – anything that meant he didn’t have to live through actually losing her, his only one, the only person who’s ever fucking mattered.

Bent over her body, all he can do is cradle Angela against him, beg and plead and pour everything he’s got into willing her to stay. But when he feels a soft breath against his neck Junkrat’s face creases up, because he knows, instantly, that it’s her last.

“Please don’t fucking leave me,” he whispers, one final attempt to reach her, but it’s too late.

She’s gone.

Junkrat buries his face into her neck and starts to cry. His tears are desperate, ugly, mixed into pleas for her to come back, because he’ll do anything, give anything, if she’d please,  _please_ come back. Met with silence, he starts convulsing from the force of his sobs - but he still holds her lifeless body against his, some sad effort to keep it warm even though it’ll never be warm again.

He cries until his throat burns, until there’s a hand on his shoulder trying to peel him away. Tracer. He smacks it off and pushes up so that he’s standing, towering over her, a column of grief and fire.

“What the  _fuck_  happened here! You told me to stay up front, so I fucking did, and now—and now  _this?!”_

Part of him registers the satisfaction when Tracer flinches, afraid of him.

“It – Junkrat,” she says, trembling, “we – we tried to, I called to you but–”

He shoves her.

“You told me you had her covered!”

“Don’t you dare try and put this on her!” Winston says, pushing in front of Tracer. Junkrat lunges at him only to be stopped by Jack holding him by the shoulders.

“Junkrat, you need to—“

“Fuck you!” he snarls, shoving Jack as well.

Junkrat hates them, hates that they’ve all allowed this to happen. He whips around to grab his frag launcher only to realise he left it by the fallen assault unit, and his eyes dart around the field, looking for something to launch himself at, any means of venting the devastating fire inside him.

But the fight is over. There’s nothing left. He can’t even kill whatever did this to her, because it’s gone, all of the omnics were defeated. This was supposed to be a victory – they were supposed to have  _won._

“How the fuck could any of you let this happen! How could – how could  _any_ of you – how could you let her fucking die like this!”

He grips his head, his hair, and then collapses to his knees next to her body, thumping the ground as though it’s going to make any difference. But there’s nothing. There’s nothing he can do.

Their Mercy, who he failed to protect  –  his Angela, who he tried to love with all of his heart  –  is dead.

 _How the fuck could_ I _let this happen?_ Junkrat thinks, in the silence she’s left behind.


End file.
